The Hunger

by Michael D. Young

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Historical Fantasy; Sword & Sorcery

Synopsis

In a distant land, political upheaval shakes civilization. Poverty and corruption run rampant. Three great clans stand on the brink of war. 

The god Rahim has abandoned mankind.  

Azil the scholar enjoys a life of wealth and comfort while he studies the nature of Rahim. But uncovering long-hidden truths leads Azil to a mysterious woman who wants to do more than learn—she wants to change the world. Claiming to be a divine messenger, she promises Azil all the answers he is looking for if he helps her steal the sacred gems of Sustenance, which are guarded in forbidden fortresses across the land. The gems are the key to restoring Rahim and ushering in a golden age for the world.

But the journey will be treacherous; bloodthirsty bandits, floating cities, and ravenous mage wraiths bar the way. And even more troubling is the gems’ volatile magic—magic so strange and powerful it could turn its wielder into the darkest of villains.

Release date: March 29, 2016

Publisher: Future House Publishing

Print pages: 318

Sample

"What now is bound must be undone, and only then is victory won." This couplet was inscribed at the entrance when I arrived. It appeared much newer than all the other inscriptions, yet it offered no further evidence of who had written it and what was meant by it. Indeed, I imagine this will be only the first of many tangled riddles that I must undo while I am here, alone at the top of the world.

They call this place the Twilight Library, and though I am uncertain as to the original origins of the name, it seems quite fitting now. The world wallows in darkness and ignorance, except for the place on which I now stand, which contains barely enough light to offer hope. Certainly, twilight is preferable to no light at all. Then again, a long night stands between the twilight and the dawn.

I remain uncertain about where to begin my search and wish that I had been able to bring Azil for company. Though he is my oldest friend, I doubt that the trek through the mountains would have agreed with him. As it is, I shall find myself jumping at every shadow, for the fate of the Library's former inhabitants also remains a mystery.

- From the Journal of Jamith, Day 1

 

Azil opened his mouth and released a bit of magical Essence into the air. He imagined impenetrable walls forming around him and shaped the released Essence into a spell of silence. He was about to speak to someone from a great distance and could not afford to be overheard during this conversation.

He allowed a few seconds for the spell to solidify and then sat in the cushioned seat of his desk chair. With a motion that felt like second nature, he removed the golden amulet from around his neck and placed it on a square of black silk that lay on the desk.

The amulet contained a trio of concentric rings, each inlaid with a single jewel of a different color. The outermost ring bore a red jewel, the next a blue jewel, and the final a gold one. With another familiar motion, he twisted each of the circles so that the jewels formed the points of an equilateral triangle.

The jewels flared with life, and the outlines of a familiar face appeared hovering in the air over the amulet. The image was an approximation of his oldest and dearest friend, a title he did not bestow lightly. It pained him a little every time he switched it on, like a sliver in his foot that he could not dislodge. The images, though welcome, were a reminder that he would likely never see his friend again in the flesh.

“Well Azil,” Jamith said, “two days until your little ball. Have you seen to your attire?”

Azil gave a tense smile. “Jamith, how long have you known me? My attire was the very first consideration I made. It is a Scarlatti function, so it is a bit more red than I usually allow myself, but at least it is for a good cause.”

Jamith nodded. “And will you submit to skin conditioning? I hear the process grows more and more expensive.”

“Absolutely not,” Azil said. “It is bad enough that they all look like a bunch of living dralial fruit. Besides, the one time I attempted the process, it greatly upset my Reserve—worse indigestion than I have ever gotten from consuming regular food. You know how much worse a magical meal can feel when coming back up. I wouldn’t want to be caught unawares simply because I swapped out my usual magical meals for a bunch of skin conditioning materials, even if they would make me look like a noble.”

There was, of course, the fact that spending more on Sustenance would mean spending less on his clothing, a situation he simply could not abide. He wouldn’t have spent the money at all if missing a magical meal didn’t have a price worse than death. He had seen others undergo the awful process of becoming a Mal, and he had no desire to experience that firsthand.

The face hovering over the amulet bobbed as Jamith laughed. “Very well then, no conditioning for you. At least now I know that your vanity does have a limit. I suppose you have summoned me for the last piece of the puzzle.”

Azil’s hand flew to his chest as he rose from his chair. “Old friend, must we assign such ulterior motives to every communication? I’ll have you know that it provides me no small degree of pleasure to gaze upon this approximation of your face. I am glad that we can converse only in this manner as the sight of your actual face might cause me to swoon with rapture.” Azil mimicked the act of swooning and then fell back into his chair, legs and arms sprawled.

“Don’t count on seeing my face anytime soon,” Jamith said. “The snow piles deeper and deeper on these mountains. I could consume naught but brimwort for a year and still not conjure enough fire to melt myself a way out. So for the time being, it will be just me and the books.”

Azil leaned toward the picture. “All right, you’ve got me. Seeing as the ball is only two days away, I thought it wise to uncover the . . . stash, as it were. I think I can manage to keep it safe for two days.”

Jamith blew out his cheeks and then rubbed his chin. “Perhaps we should wait until it’s closer to the ball, especially after your . . . incident with the Mal.”

Azil’s hand found his heart. “Is that what Evelet’s visions tell you to do, or is this simply what you want to do? I do wish she would share more of the content of these prognostications. Perhaps she could tell me what the other lords and ladies will be wearing, so I can make sure to impress.”

Jamith chuckled, shaking his head. “It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. I cannot share her visions, but I trust her gifts. If she says that your attendance at the ball is part of the plan, then you would be wise to go.”

Azil pursed his lips, trying hard to muster his own confidence to match his friend’s confidence. “Then I swear by Rahim that it shall be so. I do not want to put this off until the last minute. As my mother once said, ‘Hasty work is a mistake—it doth in clothes a wrinkle make.’”

“Your mother was a wise woman,” Jamith said. He paused for a few moments and sighed. “Go to the tavern where we met as young men. Approach the bartender and ask him for a draught from Jamith’s Jug. He will offer you a drink, which you must immediately consume. Then leave through the back door, and the path will be clear to you.”

“I must protest,” Azil said before Jamith’s voice could die away. “I for one am still a young man. And simply being a hermit does not make you an old man either. I will do as you say, old friend.”

Then Jamith jumped in. “Then why do you keep referring to me as ‘old friend’? I suppose this whole mess is just as much your fault as it is my fault. You—”

Azil thought he heard something outside his room and held up a hand for silence; Jamith fell silent. The barrier of silence kept all sounds in but did not prevent someone from coming in.

Only the constant drip from his water-based timepiece sounded in the room. Azil did not let down his guard. He reached with one hand into his pocket and withdrew a handful of red powder, which he pressed into an irregular pellet and then consumed.

It would take a few moments for him to process the material and to bring its Essence into his Reserve. He could try casting the spell right away, but it was better to be careful and allow a little extra time for his body to process the Sustenance completely. It was something his father had once taught him, along with the advice to wear a different colored waistcoat under your first choice just in case someone else at the event was wearing the same color.

The door to his study burst open, revealing the largest Mal that Azil had ever seen. It stood two heads taller than Azil and possessed multiple pairs of arms. Its hacked-off hands had been replaced with blades of various lengths. Unless this abomination moonlighted as a hedge trimmer, it served no other purpose than to butcher.

“I say,” Azil said, pointing to the fallen door, “that door cost me a great deal in bribes to smuggle it out of Keep Azura. It is quite valuable and could conceivably be reused. If you are going to slaughter me, kindly refrain from getting blood all over the door. Couldn’t we settle this in some other way?”

He grinned sardonically, his heart racing. True, he was a mage, but foremost, he was a scholar. How could he possibly best such a vicious opponent? Dread pooled in his chest as he studied the malformed face and realized this creature could never be reasoned with.

The creature opened its jaws abnormally wide and bellowed.

“My, my, aren’t you a piteous creature? It brings me no pleasure to fight you, but I suppose I should consider death an act of mercy for you.”

Ignoring Azil’s words, the Mal lumbered forward with blades swinging. A wave of panic gripped him as he realized the Essence had not yet entered his Reserve. Maybe Jamith was right about his being old. A younger man would have a much faster magical metabolism. Azil’s body tensed as the Mal closed the space between them, and he considered his meager options.

The Mal swung all of its right arms at once, and Azil hit the floor to avoid them. Staying low, he scampered on all fours around the edge of the circular room and hoped that what he lacked in strength he could make up for in speed. His breath came in shallow gasps, and a cold sweat dripped from his brow.

Who is doing this to me? he thought. He did not exactly get along with many of the other court members, but he could not think of anyone who would actually want him dead.

Multiple blades came down in front of him again, and Azil stopped just in time to avoid being turned into a thinly sliced version of himself. The edge of his fine scarlet robe took the full brunt of the attack and tore away from Azil’s body.

Azil shot to his feet. “Do you know what you have done? I was going to wear that to Keep Scarlatti for the next ball. I will now have to start over completely.”

As he finished his indignant speech, he felt the powder becoming part of his Reserve. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Oh, and one more thing, as my mother used to say, ‘When a mage nods—kneel.’” Azil exerted his will, turning the Essence into a poisonous rain that fell in torrents on the Mal. The creature barely cried out before the toxic magic dissolved him, leaving only a noxious pile of sludge.

When he was sure that everything had settled, Azil approached the pile, sniffed, and shook his head. He had not wanted to ruin his plush rug that depicted the cloudless night sky. He was grateful, though, that the door remained intact and that he would be around to reattach it.

His pulse pounded in his ears, and it was a few moments before he registered Jamith’s voice coming from the direction of his desk. The amulet lay face down on the floor, further inhibiting Jamith’s ability to be heard.

Azil flipped the amulet right side up in his palm and grinned.

“What was that?” asked Jamith, his voice higher than usual. “It sounded like the wrath of Rahim himself descending upon your study.”

Azil lifted both eyebrows. “A Mal assassin, about as ugly as can be imagined, but all brawn and no brains. Frankly, I’m a bit insulted that whoever tried to kill me didn’t make a more earnest attempt. Then again, if that was Rahim, I am in considerable trouble on multiple counts. Firstly, I reduced the attacker to a pile of unsightly sludge, for which I would be guilty of deuscide or whatever killing a god is called. Secondly, if that is what he actually looks like, then I have lost all faith in him. What good is wielding cosmic power if you cannot be bothered to dress presentably?”

“I imagine that you are guilty of nothing more than ruining a fine rug,” Jamith said. “Though I’m sure you made quick work of it, I’m happy to see you with your head still attached to your shoulders. Now go and retrieve the stash. Whoever tried to kill you will likely try again when they discover their failure. Stay close to Evelet and you’ll be safe.”

Azil nodded, amazed at how well his friend still knew him. “Spot on, old friend. Might I ask, did you happen to have the foresight to include a rug in this stash of yours?”

Jamith laughed and shook his head. “Perhaps next time, my friend. I trust we’ll speak again soon.”

Jamith’s face faded, and Azil rested his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. A tremor started in one hand and quickly moved to the other, but he was relieved he hadn’t shown his friend how close he had come to dying. Whoever had sent the creature would surely try again, and it was only a matter of time before one of the abominations succeeded. What good were fine rugs and fine clothing if you didn’t have the head to enjoy them?

Azil rose, trying to steady his nerves by moving around. He needed to get out of this place, far from all reminders of what had happened. His chest felt tight, his breathing was constricted, and his body was soaked in sweat.

“Fresh air,” he muttered. “That would be just the thing. Fresh air and a stiff drink.”

I am only a few days into my study, and already I know that all the learning of the priests of today is folly. They do not understand the nature of the being they worship and have worshiped for thousands of years. Among my many questions, this one comes to the front of my mind—has someone done this to us, or have we done this to ourselves?

Azil contacts me several times a day. Though I welcome the chance for conversation and companionship, I'm afraid he shall find my pace altogether too slow. He wants answers; we both do. But he does not see the seemingly endless rows of shelves, the chests brimming with scrolls, and the strange tablets I could not even begin to decipher. The very walls swarm with writing, and I fear that I may spend the rest of my life trying to coax even a few secrets from this place. I feel as though I am a fisherman trying to find a single remarkable fish amidst the vastness of a boundless sea. At least Azil will still enjoy the comforts of life where he is. As it is, it will be a wonder if I do not manage to starve to death before the year is out.

- From the Journal of Jamith, Day 4

 

Kaval gazed down into the crowd from his tower perch, looking at the face of each passerby for one that matched his own. He had performed this ritual so often that he gleaned the most promising prospects out of any crowd with little effort.

He could disregard all those with overly pale skin or hair right away. Then again, he could also eliminate those whose skin and hair were too dark, which accounted for well over half of the people below him. He didn’t have any hint of the more exotic reds, yellows, or blues of the noble lines, so he had learned to ignore such prospects

For those left over, he made his decision based on the finest details—the curve of the chin, the shape and color of the eyes, the consistency of the hair. It all added up to a probability, slim at best. He might one day stare his father or his mother directly in the face and fail to recognize them. From his vantage point in the shadowed overlook, they were unlikely to even see him.

All of this assumed that they still lived in this city, or this land for that matter. Eighteen years had passed since they had been forced to abandon him to the magistrate, unable to indefinitely conceal his existence from the authorities. They might have moved to a far-off land or might be dead for all he knew.

Still, pessimism, with all her poison, had never stopped him from looking.

His eyes locked on a man who stood a head’s height over the rest of the crowd, wearing the scarlet and green garb of a merchant. His skin was a rich caramel, not far from the color of Kaval’s own, his eyes closely set and his chin prominent.

Cataloguing all of these features as possible points in favor, Kaval delved into the man’s finer features—the distribution of his facial hair, the curve of his nose, his facial expressions.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” he muttered, trying to stem the well of hope rising in him. He had been down this road before, had gotten so close to being sure he had located his father or his mother, had been ready to leap down from the tower in pursuit. Something had always held him back. What if he jumped in pursuit of the wrong person? The city watch would not deal kindly with his leaving the walls of the Orphan’s Quarter, and the risk had to be worth it. It was likely a chance he would only get once.

He leaned farther and farther out the window, watching the man more closely as he strode through the crowded street. Kaval had never imagined that he would find his father among the merchant class, but then again, why shouldn’t he have found him? Even a man of great wealth could not buy his way around the population laws.

He reached the point where he could not lean any farther out the window without risking giving away his location. He would have to commit or retreat. The man would be out of his range of vision in seconds and perhaps lost forever to the crowd.

Kaval’s heart quickened, his nerves taut as he contemplated his decision. He fought the fear and readied his body to spring into action should he decide to take action.

A series of crackling sounds came from behind him, and he spun from the window. There was only one thing that sounded like that.

He sunk deeper into the shadows. The bones of a Mal only crackled that loudly when it was close, but they weren’t known for having exceptional vision, especially in the dark. Kaval covered his nose as the creature’s putrid stench wafted over him, a foul combination of sweat and rotting meat.

“Hello?” came its raspy voice. “I thought I saw someone come up here, I did. Are you there? You must be there.”

Kaval suppressed an oath. It was close. He held his breath and kept perfectly still, hoping that the clumsy creature would not stumble onto him by accident.

The crackle of ill-fitting bones continued until the creature came into sight. It was one of the ugliest Mals he had ever seen, but that wasn’t saying much. It boasted several extra appendages, and its head had grown to a bulbous resemblance of what it must have looked like when it had been human. Its arms and legs had become so elongated and bent that it could no longer walk upright but had to scramble across the floor like a grotesque spider. One of its gnarled hands clutched a single envelope of gold paper with a red wax seal. This Mal was more articulate than most, which is probably why it had been sent on delivery duty.

In the end, a Mal was a Mal, and he hated all of them. Not only did they creep him out, but they also far too often got in the way when he was sneaking around. Besides, how could you not hate something that smelled so terrible?

“Come now,” the Mal said. “My masters will beats me if I do not deliver this. Right away I must. Don’t you ever have someone who beats you? Do you like it?”

Kaval took shallower breaths. There had been a time when beatings were simply a part of the routine. Now they would have to catch him before they could beat him, and there weren’t many orphans who could do that.

The Mal inhaled sharply through its nose, a wheezing sound that made Kaval shudder. “I know you are there. Yes. I can smell you good.”

The Mal clawed forward and came within an arm’s length of Kaval. One of its misshapen limbs probed the darkness where Kaval hid, and he had to duck to avoid being hit. The Mal sniffed and jabbed repeatedly, so close that Kaval could feel the rush of air as its hands passed by. He didn’t know why he was fighting it anymore. It had him cornered and evidently had retained its sense of smell. The last thing he wanted was for the creature to graze him with its disease-ridden fingers. That would be just his luck.

Instead, he conjured a scenario that would not encourage the Mal to report where it had found him. The next time the Mal jabbed into the darkness, Kaval let himself be hit, though it turned his stomach to think of the Mal’s putrid flesh touching his own. A second later, one of the Mal’s misshapen hands wrapped around his upper arm.

“Oh, you found me,” Kaval said a bit dramatically, barely disguising his disgust. “I suppose that your team wins. It’s lucky for them that they have someone so clever on their side.”

The Mal released his arm and scuttled back a step. “But what does it mean, does it mean? I am not on a team. I come alone . . . to deliver the letter.”

The Mal held the letter aloft, and it caught some of the light from the window. This confirmed what Kaval had already expected. It bore the seal of Clan Scarlatti. Kaval had seen it on feast days when their caravans paraded through the city, emblazoned on every banner and sewn into the robes and adorning the turbans of every last pompous one of them. He couldn’t guess what a Mal was doing in the Orphans’s Quarter with a letter like that. The envelope alone was probably worth more to the guards than any one of the orphans’ lives and certainly more than the life of a messenger Mal.

“You’re not?” Kaval said. “Then I must keep hiding. Please don’t tell them where I am.”

The Mal twisted its grotesque head to one side and blinked rapidly with eyelids that did not completely close. “I will not tell them, tell them no. But you must tell me, yes, what is your name?”

Kaval chuckled lightly. “My name? What do you want with my name? You’re not playing the game so—”

The Mal held up the gilded envelope in front of Kaval’s face, only inches away. “I must deliver it. Yes, I must. This name is strange to me, and so I ask what is your name. I do know you from somewhere. Your smell, yes. I noticed. Yes, I do.”

Kaval managed to smile, thinking that this was the longest conversation he had attempted with a Mal. But he saw no harm in humoring it. If he did not tell it something, it would keep pestering him, and he would never have a chance to make a getaway. Chances were that the poor thing was simply confused. The letter couldn’t actually be for anyone in the Orphan’s Quarter, except maybe the Commissar. It might be merciful to simply put the creature out of its misery.

Kaval bowed slightly while holding his fists together in front of him, as was the customary greeting to someone of a lower station. “I am Kaval. I do not have a family name. More accurately, I do have one, but I don’t know what it is. So if you are trying to deliver that letter to me, it might be a bit difficult.”

The creature lifted its head, its bulbous eyes wide and its mouth giving a lopsided grin, revealing some of its crooked teeth. The Mal thrust the envelope again at Kaval, this time at his chest. “This letter is yours, oh yes, it is yours. Thank you, oh thank you, Kaval. When they reward me, I will think of you. Yes, I will.”

Kaval squinted at the fancy lettering on the outside of the envelope. It had been written in crimson letters that matched the sealing wax on the other side. He had learned rudimentary reading as a young boy but had never seen writing so ornate.

“Kaval,” he whispered. “That is my name. No family name. Just Kaval.” He traced the characters time and time again, barely able to believe what they revealed.

The Mal threw its head back and laughed, which sounded more like the final cries of a dying animal than a sound of mirth. “Just Kaval. Just Kaval,” the Mal said in a singsong voice as he backed away, his bones clattering with renewed intensity as he ambled back down the tower stairs.

Kaval waited several minutes in the darkness before he dared to break the seal on the envelope. When he did, the broken wax released a spicy aroma with overtones of some Sustenance. Though he wasn’t familiar with the smell, it at once put him at ease, probably because it had been enchanted to do so.

He reached in and withdrew the paper inside, which was trimmed with gold and filled with crimson writing. This script was less elaborate, so it took him only a few minutes to decipher.

 

Your Presence is requested

At Keep Scarlatti

For the Grand Feast of Rahim

On the Eve of the New Year

Beginning at the First Watch

 

Under the writing appeared the seal of Clan Scarlatti, a rose surrounded by curling flames. After reading it once more to make sure he had not misunderstood, Kaval replaced the invitation in the envelope and slid down the wall into a seated position.

Clan Scarlatti? Why on earth would they be sending him an invitation? He didn’t dare hope that he had some sort of relative in their clan, but there also didn’t seem to be any other explanation. From what he had seen of the Scarlattis, their vanity would not allow a poorly dressed orphan at one of their feasts.

But with his eighteenth birthday approaching and no apprenticeship selected for him yet, he needed to do something to gain a patron. Attending a ball with the city’s elite might be just the way to do that. Otherwise, only a life of slavery awaited him. He would rather die than become a Mal.

Normally, he wouldn’t dream of spending so little time watching the crowd from the tower, but the Eve of the New Year was only two days away. Was this strange invitation really meant for him? If so, a chance like this would surely not come again.

He started back down the tower stairs when the first pangs of the Hunger hit him—the stirring in his chest as if something was trying to get out. He had eaten his normal midday meal only an hour before but had yet to nourish his magical Reserve. The thought spurred him on, making him momentarily forget the golden envelope concealed in his clothing. It would be worth nothing to him if he didn’t get his daily requirement of Sustenance. Mals weren’t allowed at noble parties.

***

By the time Kaval returned to the commons, the Commissar had already dispersed most of the food, magical and otherwise. The portly man stood at attention in his mismatched military uniform as though he stood before his commanding sergeant instead of a food line for a bunch of orphans and outcasts.

The Commissar glanced from side to side, and seeing the commons empty, reached down into the open chest atop the wheeled cart in front of him. Kaval shook his head. He had seen the Commissar picking over the leftovers before, but it always baffled him that someone would actually want more of the rubbish they handed out here.

“Are you sure you need a second helping, sir? Your uniform is getting a bit tight as it is.”

At the sound of Kaval’s voice, the Commissar whirled, his face resuming its imperious expression. “As your commander, it is important to keep up my strength. I would not expect a young upstart like you to understand. Perhaps I should withhold your rations until you learn your place. Ever fancy finding out what it is like to be a Mal? I’m sure we could put you to work. Your eighteenth birthday is but a mere week away, is it not?”

Kaval rushed up, withdrew the golden envelope, and waved it in front of Commissar’s face. “You know, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. I’m going places, old man. I came upon this today. If it fell into your hands, you might be able to buy a new uniform with a little more room in the . . well, all over.”

“And what’s wrong with the one I have?” blustered the Commissar. “It was good enough for my father when he wore it into battle, and it is good enough for me. They say the hordes of Azura paled at the sight of his majesty.”

“Yes,” Kaval said. “And it looks like he left some heroic bloodstains on it. Buy a new feather for your cap. I don’t care. I only need what was inside the envelope and something . . .